Burning
by Harmony283
Summary: His footsteps sound too loud against the floor, and his hand is too heavy when reaching for the glass. It tips. It falls. Shattering to the ground. Lavi-centric


**Just something I quickly came up with at 1AM last night while trying to find the plot bunnies for my other fanfic (Pressure) _and_ listening to some random Linkin Park songs on repeat. I'm not really sure if most of it makes sense (and really, I normally don't bother with the 'past of the characters' unless the past is already KNOWN, which in Lavi's case, it obviously isn't). But I really like the way this turned out o.o **

**Summary: It was a miracle that he survived. But he didn't understand _why_. After all, it was the war's fault that the building burned down. And it was the _human's_ fault for starting the war in the first place. They were so stupid. But maybe, finally, he'd get his chance to see the _why_. Lavi-centric **

**Disclaimer: Don't own D. Gray Man.**

**Enjoy! **

**--**

Hands grip the edge of the bed.

_A faint voice, ringing, ringing in my ear_

Something's pressing against my chest. I can't breathe

_Red hair splayed across the cold, cold snow_

I feel fire lapping at my skin.

_Am I really in Hell? _

Smoke fills my lungs, and I try, try to sit up, try, _try_ to lift this painful weight.

_But I can't…I can't…_

I hear voices somewhere above me, they're whispering, softly, saying strange things.

'_He is! He is!' _

Then my grip slackens, a sharp, sticking pain in my arm…

'_What are they? What are they…?!' _

Everything goes numb. The heat—the _fire_­—everything is gone.

_Alone, blood splattered against the cold walls. _

I feel trapped.

_It easily burns…I can see it. I can set it on fire if I want. _

Then it's back again—the numbness fades quickly—and the voices are back as well. This time stronger, shouting—desperate—_fearful_—

_Red hair, splayed, gently on the snow, the snow that slowly melts with the heat of fire…_

Slowly, slowly I open my eyes, and I'm staring up, up at unfamiliar faces. Should I know them? Should I…?

'_He's awake!' _They whisper to each other, before focusing that attention back at me. One man, one with white hair, long and held in a loose ponytail, leans over me with a kind look in his eyes, "How are you feeling?" He asks, loud enough for me to hear.

I want to speak, but I can only cough. He seems to understand though, and turns to one of his colleagues, whispering a few words, _'Water—Water! Get the boy some water!' _He isn't trying to be loud and yet I can hear him perfectly like he was whispering in my own ear.

_The red hair shifts, and soaks through with snow…_

The man turns back to me, this time a cup of water in his hands. It looks promising—I can't help but want it. And I lean forward, trying despite the pressure still aching against my chest, to sit all the way up, to taste the liquid that I—I knew I hadn't had for a long time.

_The fire waxes and wanes, painting the ground black with charred remains…_

I tilt the glass, the liquid pours out onto my still numb lips. The man laughs a gentle laugh, "You must be thirsty, just as I thought." He hummed a strange tune before turning away and whispering to a colleague again, _'Make sure he doesn't try to move. I…don't know what he'll do yet.' _

The Colleague—a man dressed in white slacks, and a button down dress shirt, with slicked back hair held tightly in a short ponytail—nods his head, shifting his round, disturbing gaze, in my direction.

In the pit of my stomach I knew I should be worried.

The albino man turns to face me again, saying in the same gentle hum, "I'll be back in a moment. I believe someone might be here to pick you up soon—wouldn't that be wonderful?" He smiles like it's a good thing, and then turns to leave.

_The red hair burns, slowly, sickeningly, the smell wafts with the scent of burned skin…_

The round eyed man takes two steps forward before pausing, eyes fixating on certain parts of me, before flitting to my face, "It's a miracle." He says, loud enough for me to hear, and in a voice thick with a Spanish accent. His round eyes narrowed, "But how is it a miracle?"

I take another sip of the water that is not yet gone, and simply stare at him through the bottom of the empty glass.

He smiles. Again. Disturbingly.

'_Am I really in Hell?' The voice asks, again, again…_

Then, lowly, the disquieting man whispers, _'To survive the collapse of building—a burning building!—Who is this boy…?' _He pauses and turns his head half away, so that he isn't quite looking at me, _'A prodigy of the Elements? No, surely not.' _

I stare at the glass now sitting in front of me. I tap it once and my finger clinks annoyingly against the glass.

A door somewhere in the building—place—wherever I am—opens and then closes again. Another sign that I should be worried. Too many doors, all in one place, was never a good thing.

'_I need to escape.' _

I tap my nail against the glass again, before dragging it across with an even more annoying sound.

The slicked back man grimaces and turns to face me again, "Don't do that." His voice is harsh, but gentle at the same time.

I drag the pad of my finger across the glass in the opposite direction. This time it squeaks.

'_I need to. I need to escape—it's the only way.' _

His footsteps sound too loud against the floor, and his hand is too heavy when reaching for the glass. It tips.

It falls.

s

h

at

ter

ing

to

the

gro—

und

I stare up at him, and the man quickly looks away, taking a few quick strides, and then he's half way across the room again.

Another door opens; then closes. This time it's closer—much closer. And in a time span of less than five minutes the colorless man enters again. He looks strained, and his eyes immediately find the one obstruction that hadn't been there when he left.

His eyes turn steadily to the Spanish-borne man, "You may leave." His words are short and clipped, not words of accusation, but ones of definite—all-seeing—_truth_.

_The sound of footsteps, loud in the quiet snow_

_Gathering, gathering away from the fallen flames_

_The charred remains…_

The white haired man turns slowly back, soft blue eyes meeting my own with distinct clarity, "Can you speak?"

I shake my head.

He nods his, "I see." He breathes in, then slowly out, "And I assume you cannot see out of that eye?"

My hand immediately shoots up to where my eye patch was—_should have_—been…but it's replaced with bandages.

The man smiles gently, "I had to remove it. It seemed…wounded. It was bleeding." My one good eye narrows, "But you were already unconscious then." I can't seem to relax anymore. Not that I had been. Ever.

Another door off in the distance slams shut.

'_Too many doors…' _

My gaze falls to the broken bits of glass, and the man—old in color, but not too old in strength—walks forward, to the side of the bed-table. Then he leans down and begins picking up the pieces, "He knocked it off, didn't he?" He questions, one by one picking up the glittering pieces before placing them in the palm of his hands.

I nod my head, and he seems to see it.

"I see." Then he, slowly, hisses out, '_I'll have to speak with him later.'_

He picks up one particularly sharp looking piece of glass and I say, before I can even realize my mouth's sudden will to speak, "You'll cut yourself."

And he does. The shard pierces his skin painfully, thoroughly, and the tip is stained with blood. His hand, unintentionally—I knew—balls into a fist. The other shards dig into his skin. He hisses out in pain.

A few words leave his lips, simple curses that I had already learned, and he quickly relinquishes his hold on the shards, letting them fall, one by bloody one, onto the cold floor. He turns to me, apologetic and resigned, "Thank you for warning me."

"It didn't do much good." The last half of the sentence came out as a croak.

His smile turns inward, "And you shouldn't speak if it hurts. You said you couldn't, after all."

I clamp my mouth shut, and simply nod my head.

A moment of silence passes between us.

Then he asks, "Do you know how you got here?" It was the conversation I knew was going to happen eventually. Always did, when I wound up in a new place.

I shook my head.

He nods his own, "That's understandable. I _did_ say you had passed out before I brought you here." He stares down at his wounded palm, but makes no move to comfort it, "It's hard to believe, really. I'm sure Arnold—the man that I just…dismissed—" the disturbing man with the round eyes, my mind substituted for me, "—must have mentioned it. Do you know what happened?"

I blinked once, and nod my head once, before shaking it.

"Again, understandable," He nods to himself, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear with his wounded palm. Blood clings slightly to a strand, but I don't point it out, "It was a fire." I nod my head, "You know that much? Well, it should be obvious, given your condition." His eyes scan over me once, and I don't have to look down to tell my body is covered in those thick, constricting bandages—_'That make it so hard to breathe'_—that were hiding the inevitable burn wounds.

"But you made it out better than we had hoped. You weren't badly burned, considering the fire." I blinked at him again, and he continued, "Your only major wound is your…_unusable_ eye." I didn't like the amount of emphasis placed on that word. But again I said nothing, just blinked. And he continued once more, "It wouldn't stop bleeding. You also had a—you hit your head quite hard. Or it _was_ hit." He mused over that wording for a moment before shaking his head, "Regardless, it really _is_ what we call a 'miracle' that you survived."

I cocked my head slightly to the side and his expression turned grim, "That wound, however, could have been from even _before_ the fire." I reached up slowly with my hand and touched the thick gauze covering my forehead, "You were at a hospital." He explained, almost wearily, "In one of the farthest rooms. _No one_ survived. No one," he reached one hand out and touched my own before continuing, "except _you_."

The words should have had some profound impact on me. But I felt nothing, "So?" It was a whisper of the word, my throat was still scratchy.

He almost looked horrified, but quickly masked the expression away, "So many wounded from the war—_so many_ were taken there. It was the last true hospital in this region. Too many innocent died. You could have been one of them."

"But I wasn't." I plainly responded back, a cold worry filtering somewhere—somewhere in the back of my mind. My responses weren't normal and I was _scaring_ him. The thought almost thrilled me, "The war," I coughed, ignoring the taste of blood somewhere in the back of my throat, "was…_our_ fault…anyway."

"No one deserves to die." He coldly responded back, "Even the _losing side_ doesn't deserve that."

_The doors are closing one by one_

_A sick nursery rhyme with no good ending_

_A maze with no real exit_

"Then _why_," I coughed again and this time he moved closer, as if to try and stop me from speaking, "did we…_make_ war…to begin with?"

His eyes widened, then softened, "Normally a boy your age wouldn't ask something like that." He let out a low chuckle, "But then, I suppose only a child could ask something that…_pure_." He squeezed the hand that he was still covering before pulling it away, "It's nice to see that kind of purity. Even _during_ war."

"There's something _pure_ in calling human's _stupid_?" I didn't know how I managed, but that sentence came, full, and _just there_, and it shocked him even more. And the coldness…spread even more…

_Red hair, splayed out against the cold_

_Cold barren field of the supposed hell_

_With flames, licking, once, twice, at the skin of the 'sin' _

_And the cross roads that stretch in all directions…_

"No." he responded flatly, "There isn't." He was being careful as well, testing his words like he suddenly wasn't talking to _just a child_ anymore. He sat down, slowly, next to me, pulling his hand away from my face to look me clear in the eye, "Why would you think that?"

"How…can I," I wheezed for a moment, "_not_? Human's are…so…_stupid_ f-for…" I coughed, and this time I could feel blood coating my tongue, "_creating_ s-such a stupid thing like _war_."

His hands balled into tightly formed fists even though I knew his wounded palm must hurt, "Wars are created to—" he paused, as if searching for some sort of explanation—some _word_ that would help him explain why they kept happening, "—human's will never agree with one another. That's why treaties and alliances are formed." His expression saddened, "It _is_ horrible, especially when countless civilians suffer from it."

I heard the sound of another door opening, and soft footsteps, and then there, standing in the doorway, speaking words in a weathered, but…but oddly _truthful_, voice, "Like a game of human chess."

An old man.

Or _not_ an old man. But someone who _looked_ old. Sagging skin. Deep Panda-like shadows under his sagging eyes…he wasn't that much taller than me…

"Bookman," the Albino chided, his expression turning to one of relief, "there's no need to use your…_allusions_ on such a young boy."

"That wasn't an allusion, it was a, ah, what do they call it? A _simile_." The 'Bookman'—_Panda—_corrected effortlessly.

The man next to me waved his hand dismissively, "Yes, yes _whatever you call it._ He's just a boy. That isn't the _nicest_ way to put it."

"Skirting around the truth won't help him learn it." The elderly moved forward, long earrings dangling—_'Isn't that painful?'—_from their loop holes as he moved. He stopped just before the shattered glass—having not even looked down to notice it—and directed his attention at me, "So you're the one they found in the hospital?"

"Yes he is." The albino answered for me, "I'm surprised you're interested in him. He's just a child," he glanced at me, and then back at the Bookman, "Who is still _healing_." He tagged on as an almost reminder.

"Yes, yes, I know. Just a child." The Panda repeated, "with an abnormal amount of _luck_." His eyes scanned over me and soon focused on my one eye, "and who also wishes to know the truth of _war_, yes?"

The cold fear, twisting it's way in the pit of my stomach, tightened it's hold as I nodded my head.

"You find war…less than…_justified_, correct?"

I nodded my head again.

"Bookman." The albino sighed out, warningly.

"Hush, Snow."

The man flinched only to hiss out, "_Panda_." A second later, like it was an insult.

The Bookman ignored him and continued on, "I suppose to cut things short for the poor little _Snow Cone here_." No. He_ had_ heard the albino. He wasn't going to ignore him. But.

"Stop with the snow references _please_." The man ground out, "But really, _Panda_, he's just a _child_."

"How old are you?"

The question startled me, and at first I didn't answer, the fear in my stomach spreading even faster—twisting—twisting—_twisting…_

_Leading…Leading_

_Left to the stars_

_Right to the sky_

_South to the Sea_

_North to fields of green…_

_Below to the sins once left_

_  
Above to the exalted, and Angels…of Heaven…_

_Then the screams from all directions…echoing…echoing…_

"Boy?" The Bookman inquired, his voice, gentle this time, as if he realized my silence.

"He's having a hard time speaking." The Snow Cone responded, almost protectively, "It—"

But the Bookman easily pushed aside his words, "Just give a date."

"Tenth." I found my voice enough to answer.

"The Tenth?"

"August." I answered again, and coughed. I felt something I was sure wasn't saliva drip down my chin.

"Boy?!" Now the albino was worried—even more worried than he had been. Eyes, widening slightly, "We need to get a nurse." He stood up quickly glancing once at me and then saying, "Stay with him." Then, lowly, adding on, _'But I really hope you aren't planning anything.' _

'_Why would I ever?' _The elderly replied back, a glint, shining, there, in his old eyes.

'_Because it's the way you work.' _The man let out a sigh, _'And I'll never have a say so in it.' _

"Have you ever?" The Bookman asked, louder, with a slightly friendlier flash in his age-old eyes.

"Not where you're concerned, no." He let out a sigh and brushed his snow-white bangs away from his eyes once more, "You're a Bookman, recorder of the past, present, future, _wars_, and all the—" he glanced at me, "—everything in between." He lowered his voice once more and added, _'Though searching for an apprentice at _your_ age? You really don't give yourself that much time to work. Or have you really failed that often?' _

For a moment the old Panda tensed, and he didn't regain his former composure until the albino had shut the door to his room. His shoulders went lax, but still firm, and he fixated his gaze on me once more, "You heard him, didn't you, boy?"

I blinked. It depended on what he meant by _heard_.

"I need a new apprentice."

_Ah, that._

"And I'm most inclined to find one—as _Snow_ said, I'm not quite as young as I used to be." There was a certain wistfulness in his voice that made me wonder how long he had been alive—despite the obvious clues of his outward appearance—though I was sure he wasn't going to tell me. Even _if_ I asked.

He closed his eyes softly before continuing, "You also know that I am, indeed a Bookman. And I also know how rare, indeed, it is to find someone with quite the same mindset as you." His eyes opened, but remained in careful slits, searching out my own, "Nor have I seen someone with quite as much potential as I can see in you."

I would have asked _how_ he could tell that, but the fear spreading, cold as ice, but leaving burns as painful as the fire I had lived through, had reached my throat, and the small, cool, fingers, were slowly twisting their way around my throat…

_Why was I afraid?_

"A Bookman lives to view events from the outside. To record history as it happens, but to never get involved." He seemed to paraphrase from something, "I have been doing this for nearly all of my adult life. I believe you have the capabilities of this." I opened my mouth to speak but he cut me off before words could form, "And I'm hardly ever wrong."

I slowly closed my mouth and nodded my head, coughing once, and then twice. The Panda stepped forward, I could hear the sound of the glass shards cracking further under his feet, and suddenly I felt his hand, resting gently on the side of my face, "What say you?" He questioned, gently.

"I'll…get to know…the _why_?" I asked, coughing once more.

He nodded his head.

_Calling to each direction_

_The crossroads of life_

_Give in to sin_

_Or repent to heaven?_

_The directions ever changing…_

"I…choose…the field…" I didn't see his expression as my mind slowly, slowly started to turn blank. But I heard it—somewhere in the building, the quickening footsteps and the opening of the door…

And this time it stayed open.

_I could finally escape_

--

**I re-read this about four times and I'm still not sure I entirely get what I was thinking while writing it. But it was an idea that's been bugging me for a while (that I knew I'd probably never be able to fit in anything else I write for this section). So here it is. Hopefully it'll make you think. A little bit. Also, I _love_**** feedback! Have Questions? Comments? CC? Send it via a review! (if not signed, then **_**please**_** give me your email address—especially if you have a question—so I can answer it!) **

**Now off to work on **_**Pressure**_** again**

**-Harmony283 **


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